She made the call, then took the Overground through the East End, crossing and re-crossing the canal, looking into back gardens, breakers’ yards, warehouses, allotments. Then the train plunged underground and after a few minutes re-emerged into the light in a different country: South London. Frieda got out at Peckham Rye and needed the map to steer her through residential streets, past a school and under-arch repair shops until she reached the housing estate she was looking for. Each large building had a name: Bunyan, Blake, and then – the one she was looking for – Morris. A man was standing on the pavement talking on his phone. He looked as if he should have been on a touchline somewhere. He was dressed in trainers, tracksuit bottoms, a yellow football shirt with the name of a utility company across the chest and a black windcheater. He was tall, with long hair tied up in a ponytail, revealing earrings in both ears. One eyebrow was also pierced. He might have had a moustache and a goatee or he might just not have shaved for a few days.
